


Musky Husky

by orphan_account



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: And so many other depraved things, Burping, Farting, Fat - Freeform, Fetish, Gas - Freeform, Incredibly Fetishy, Messy eating, Other, Watersports, musk, slob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23323762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: This is a story about a depraved, slobby Husk. Please do not read if you aren't into this kinda nasty stuff, cause trust me, it's nasty from the get-go.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Shout-out to a certain yeen who motivated me/helped me to come up with and actually write this bitch.

“Wuff,” the cat, Husk, sighs as he slumps down into his damp chair. The pudgy thing sports only his underwear and bowtie, both of which are desecrated with spots from unknown sources. Yellows, greys, and different colors of stain coat his boxer-briefs, along with wide holes and rips. Luckily for him, he has his own little place away from the prying eyes in the dining room in this little back room. And it’s fairly well-furnished for a breakroom turned personal respite. A full-sized fridge, a microwave, a CRT TV, what more could a drunkard want? 

Well, a shower, if he was sensible. But apparently, Husk isn’t the sensible type. Or the bathing type. Cats don’t like water? Well, this one doesn’t know what it is. An overpowering scent of sweat, stale gas and piss lingers about the room. Stains cover the wall in front of his chair in a specific place, looking like somebody chose a spot to flick some kinda liquid against, over and over again, never cleaning it. A powerful musk emanates from his crotch and underarms, crumbs and dandruff leftover in his fur after months without a drop of water to wash any of it away, except maybe the occasions when he’d spill beer on himself. 

As he stares at the TV to his left, he lifts his arm and scratches a pit, wincing with a grin at the heavy stench. He pokes his nose at the swampy region, sniffing deep at the crevice. He turns his head away from the matted fur back to the screen. His hand slips under his arm as he lowers it, sandwiching it in the musky place. After a while, he brings the hand over his open mouth and nose, submerging his sense of smell and taste in the smell of himself. As he snorts and licks at the sweat-soaked hand, his other hand goes down to grope his growing bulge.

A rumble emerges from the furred man’s stomach, interrupting the good time. His hands come to massage it. “Yeah, yeah, ar’right. I’ll get somethin’... somethin’ to eat.” He stumbles through his sentence, afterward taking a gulp of his beer. *AOURP* A short, violent burp expels itself from his maw, reeking of the booze he just swallowed down. A chuckle comes from him as his nose twitches at the smell. Another grumble comes from his gut, he slaps the side of it and rocks to his feet. His legs are unsteady, but slowly even out as he approaches his fridge. As he opens up, the cold washes over his swampy body, chilling his pits and crotch just a bit. A hand reaches around to scratch his ass as he pulls out a tinfoil-wrapped object from the background of junk food and empty bottles.

He withdraws from the wintry capsule of sustenance and brings his treasure to the microwave, grabbing a paper plate off the top of it. He rips open the metallic shell, revealing a burger stacked high. Two patties, with cheese between each bun, and a generous slathering of mayo in between meats. The dish goes into the microwave, and Husk presses in a short time for the thing to heat up. 

He squats down to the microwave glasses’ level, gazing into his reflection. He pulls down a lip to gaze at his teeth, ugly and yellowed beyond repair. A grin forms between his lips, and he blows a kiss to himself in the shitty mirror, before wiping his nose with his arm, leaving a slather of snot on it. He just wipes it off on his stomach, no extra thought given. A second later, the microwave dings and the food is retrieved from the greasy, unclean appliance.

The burger is just as it was, but now grease coats the beast in a thick layer, dripping down to the shiny paper holding it up. He eyes the meal with a near sultry gaze, sizing it up. Most likely thinking too, how exactly he should go about eating this thing. “Whatever, I’ll figure it out,” he thinks to himself. Husk turns around and heads back to his musty old armchair, slamming his ass down into the indented cushion. As he gets settled in with his plate and beer, the burger tips over into his lap, grease pooling under his bulge. The sticky warmth of the meat encompasses his own, and in an instant, he reaches full mast within the underwear, twitching against what he should be in the process of eating. Unconsciously, his hips buck against the sensation, leaving a trail of dark on the underside of his dick. His wings whip the tasty scent around him.

“God, fuck,” he curses in a low, gruff mumble. “Am I really… fuck. Why not.”

The corpulent demon stacks the thick patties back onto each other, staring at the warm, inviting pieces of beef. With a shaky hand, he picks up the burger. He drops the plate onto the end table next to the seat, then pulls his dick out of his drawers through the flaps. Using his free hand, he aims the tip of his long, filthy rod between the two patties. Slowly, he introduces the tip to the opening, grabbing both sides of the meal after acquainting the two. A powerful shiver runs through his entire body in reaction to the gross heat, and he grunts as he pulls the burger slowly onto his length.

The cat stammers out as he brings the improvised fleshlight onto himself, “I don’t fuckin’, I don’t even fuckin’ care.”

He brings the stack down past his sensitive tip, leaving a thick trail of white goo and clear, sickly liquid around his shaft. His dick thrusts into the opening, almost of its own will. He snorts, breathing in the overpowering smell of the fatty fast food and his bare, unwashed cock. In a deliberate motion, he thrusts his hips up into the sandwich and drives it down to the base of his length. The winged creature tries his best to resist the urge to wallow in the wave of bliss taking him over.

“Ungh. Heh, huh,” Husk laughs at himself and his off-white-coated appendage. He yanks it back up, bringing the glob of mayonnaise back up to the bridge of his head, warm and comforting. “Guess…” he thrusts back in, “this…” he lifts it back up, squeezing hard on the way, “is how I’m doin’ it!”

In a manic burst, his hands start to lift and drop the moist fleshlight fervently, with him sitting up and bashing his crotch into the patties and bun. His cock throbs with each hard slide. Along with the mayo, another buildup forms on the lips of the messy thing’s maw, stickier, darker, and thick as the condiment. “I never fuckin’ ordered blue cheese on this thing… guh,” he gripes between thrusts. “I should go get a -NGH-, goddamn refund. *ooourRP!*” A classy belch finishes the complaint, rumbling his neck and slight double chin.

With just a couple more brutal insertions, his slathered mast reaches its brink. He brings the used slab of literal fuckmeat all the way to the tip of his dick and corkscrews the sloppy burger on the tip. He lays all the way back in his sweaty seat, gyrating his hips up into his meal. Shocks of pleasure run through the base to both of his heads, clouding his thoughts in a haze of hunger and lust.

“God, FUCK,” he loudly groans, gripping his hands hard around his fleshlight, around his head. 

The head spasms into the greased hole, right into the center of the thing. Cum drips out of both ends, swirling and dripping down onto the floor and onto Husk’s thighs along with the “blue cheese” and mayo, matting his fur in drops and getting yet more stains in his chair. He uncaps the cannon, taking the flooded meal off his dick and places it off to the side, back onto its plate. What’s left is a piece of meat, slathered in mayo, cum, and smegma, half-erect.

“And I’m still fuckin’ hungry.” He looks over at the burger, and then back to the dripping congealment of sauce; demon and condiment, matting his groin fur. “Uh, ring-a-ding.”

He claps his hands to the base of his dick, and pushes them up, pushing along the mass of slop to the very top of his shaft, leaving him shivering from pure warmth and overstimulation. Once he reaches the top with the handfuls of savory substance, he pops it over the bellend carefully and brings it to his face. His autumn eyes swirl in the revolting muck, each breath comes deep and needy. His stomach writhes in the agony of hunger.

“Unf, I just want…” before he can finish the thought, he shoves his right hand into his mouth, slurping on his fingers. He gags at the combined taste of each goo. The tanginess and crumbling texture from the smegma, the musky taste of both his own dick cheese and cum, the fatty mayo, and the meaty secretions overwhelm the poor man. He gags hard on the two fingers worming in his throat, the pinky and pointer spreading the mix around on his cheeks. He slaps his belly with his free hand, the goop coating the middle of it. He shoves the other 2 fingers into his throat horking up every other moment. 

He still fingers his maw deep, touching the back of his throat with every deep dive onto his tongue. His other hand idly spreads the disgusting mix around his belly, soaking his mantits in the goo. He lowers his mouth-exploring hand down to his stomach too, covered in saliva, and starts to rub. As a sendoff to some unknown thing, he slaps both hands harshly onto his condiment soaked gut.

*fbbBLARPT*

\--------------------------------

“I need more beer,” the tubby cat whines at his empty mug, only a tiny pool of liquid lying in the bottom. 

He sets the large cup off to the side of his chair, laying back and feeling himself out. The grease and “sauce” has since aged on his stomach fur, yellowing and adding to the heady stink in the backroom. The hair is sticky and matted, stained thoroughly not just by his most recent “venture”, but by a good few months without cleaning. Besides the cleaning that was simply him wiping up the crumbs from all over and sticking them in his mouth. And now, that was the kind of cleaning he was gonna do.

He runs an arm over his flab, gathering a good amount of rancid grime up with it. He raises it to his mouth. He gags at the funk coming off the almost-solid stuff but laps it up nonetheless. With every gulp, his cheeks puff out a little, but he continues swallowing it down. After a little while more of this licking, he stops to wipe the excess of saliva on his arm all over his belly, thinning out the tough grime already stuck on. The stuff on his underwear, however, goes ignored.

*hhorRUP*

He pats his gut, getting the grime on his “clean” palm, which was still coated in the slippery substance. “Okay, beer. I need beer… and a snack.” He curls up to a sit, paws planted solidly on the musty shag carpet underneath him.

With a heavy sigh, he climbs to his feet, following with an unsteady wobble. He lumbers over to one of the glass cabinets in the room, the glass fogged just a bit. The door hits the side with a slam, and Husk reaches a grubby paw deep into the cabinet. He pulls out a party-sized bag of Cheetos Puffs (or whatever Hell alternative there is to it.) The fridge goes untouched, most likely he’s already emptied it out.

“Yeah, this’ll do,” he mumbles to himself. The mug is retrieved, with the bag under his arm and said mug in his hand, he ventures out of his smelly cave.

Dim, warm orange light bathes the spacious area. From pool and dealer’s tables to regular seating and booths, the place has plenty of space for guests. And with more guests is more food. Plates of leftovers coat most of the tables, except for the couple that people actually occupy. Of course, there aren’t that many people to be leftover at the closing time, which is midnight, but still a few bodies persist. A couple sits at a center of the place at one of the only clean tables, a pair of stereotypical wolves, gloomy in color besides accents of strong red. In a booth all the way to the back corner of the room sits a spider cloaked in pink in white, accompanied by a few boxes from the local 24/7 pizzeria. On the receipt stapled on top of the smallest, a simple name reads “Angel”.

The sugar-water arachnid opens the top box, the small one, to a square of breadsticks. A small blush spreads across his cheeks. Angel’s eyes widen just the slightest bit at the sight of the gooey cheese. He grabs one of the cups of marinara and opens the thing, the savory smell meshes with the admittedly somewhat bland appetizer. A pair of shaky hands caress the slight heft under his barely-tight suit, as another hand reaches for the center of the square, and pulls out the first piece. Gingerly, he dips it into the dark red sauce, and - crams it into his mouth. He swallows the food without much of a thought. A small, stifled moan follows as he grasps at a couple more sticks.

Husk ducks out behind the bar, keeping under the surface of the top. The attempt at stealth is quickly invalidated by the door to his room slamming behind him. That and the stink from his body invading the air around him. The pure rank musk from his underarms combined with the sludge from his belly forms a miasma around his sweaty body. Immediately, the wolves sitting in the center of the room start to whisper with increased fervor. Angel just sniffs at the air with a sour expression.

The drunk crawls along the floor with his belly jiggling under him, knees and hands scraping slowly against the concrete floor. His paws leave a sticky residue every “step”. The open bag of cheese puffs is crammed into the waistband of his underwear, and the mug held under an armpit. He huffs every now and then, and each smelly breath is snorted up the instant it reaches his nose. Husk rubs the slowly elongating bulge between his thick thighs, jostling the snack bag. After a second of this, he drops belly-first onto the floor, prompting a crackle from his chips, and a loud *oooOURP* from his throat.

“What the fuck was that?” One of the wolves asked, nasally in voice.

Nonetheless, he humps his mast against the cold floor, with each thrust into the space between his belly and the floor, his bag creates a cacophony of crinkles. He lays his head down on a sticky arm, matting the fur of his cheek, still pumping his hips. That is until he notices he’s still thirsty. With a sigh, the tubby demon lifts himself back onto his knees. The crawl continues. Eventually, he reaches the end of the bar where the beer taps are. As sneakily as he can, he slides the large glass under the nozzle and fills it to the brim. After a full second of liquid loudly rushing into its container, he brings it down to his level, taking the bag of puffs out of his waistband and placing it on the floor. He downs a large few gulps of the drink, finishing it with a sharp *UOOORP*.

“Ohmigod. Chelsea, ugh. We need to leave,” the other wolf whines between gags.

The one with the strained voice responds, “Uh, yeah. Let’s beat it.” A scraping of table legs and a pitter-pattering of paws later, and the couple are gone from the room. Only Angel and Husk remain.

“God, it’s about fuckin’ time. I need a break.”

He seats his fat rear end against the wall behind the bar, legs and wings splayed out. His rod pulsates under the desecrated fabric of his underwear. He pays it no mind, going ahead to his bag of puffs. A paw shoves into its shiny insides and draws out a fistful of the strange chips. He shovels them into his mouth, wolfing the crunchy - but slightly stale and chewy - things down in a flash. The excess of neon orange, sticky dust wipes off on his gut and on the beating bar of meat sticking out from between his legs. It gets some extra attention from the messy hands. A dollop of precum stains the tip of his drawers already. He massages the tip, getting the slimy substance over the dusted hand, and dust over the fabric-covered head.

“Unf. *ooOOURURP*” The cheesy stench of the belch gets washed down with more grog. “Idea, bitch.”

He stuffs more of the snack into his maw, each puff now dipped in the pre stuck onto his grubby hands. The salt and artificial cheddar mash together in his mouth, and for the first time in the night, he actually savors the flavor. As he slowly mulls over the… intriguing flavor, he pulls the flaps of his thinning shorts down around the base of his cock. The thick sea of stink around the demon intensifies in a snap. Like earlier, the thick length is brimming with cheese of his own brand, thick and coating every crevice around the head. 

Slowly, he massages down the piece, still slick with the remnants of his earlier ventures. But now, the reddish-pink skin gets a new tint of weak orange slathered on. The scent of the flavoring fills the air along with the musk emanating from his cock. He snorts up the odor as he strokes, coating his palms now with a two-cheese layer. His tip bolks another large drop of clear goo. Immediately, he slathers it all over himself. The slime lathers his length and coats his sweaty mantits, both now covered in thick cheese dust. He sticks a disgusting hand back into the bag and shoves his hand back into his maw, sucking down the actual thing he’s trying to eat along with the nauseating substances fresh of himself.

He gags and hics as he drains the heady slime down his throat, causing quite the din. His other hand strokes his shaft with an increasing pace, a wet *shlick* noise coming from it every time he runs from head to base. With the hand he suckled on, he reaches back into the bag and brings more of its contents to his mouth. Occasionally, he’ll alternate roles between his hands, and he’ll take a second wipe the mess off on his bellyfur and tits. Between gulps and wipes, he refills his mug of rapidly disappearing alcohol.

“So fuckin’ *ooOURP* good! Uff... *huORP!*” He belches between gulps of precum, smegma, beer, and cheesy puffs.

Angel stares down at his half-finished box of cheese sticks, torn in three ways. One is to keep on munching through the meal he paid for. Another is going to see just what the hell is going on beyond that counter. The last one is… well, he doesn’t even know himself. The only evidence of the third is a slowly rising tent in his tight shorts, which he’s trying his best to suppress with the palm of one of his hands. And the first is being made difficult by a growing need to vomit. One option is left.

The spider hops up from his lonely booth and wobbles a little bit on his feet. With a second to steady himself against the seat, he looks down at his crotch. His slim length protrudes out from the rim of his pants leg. The head of it pokes out from it, giving it full visibility. The rest of it remains tight against his thigh, pulled into place by the fabric. A slight dribble of pre runs from the tip. He starts his walk from the back end of the room to the bar, his erection rubbing up against the soft, well-kept fur of his leg.

It isn’t a long trip, not by any measure, but for the arachnid, it feels to be. The smell of whatever is happening, combined with the confusing lust and hunger within him makes him woozy. But still, he walks on. After a whole few seconds of off-kilter strutting, he reaches the middle of the room. For a second, he contemplates just leaving the place. But his mind steers him back to the bar in front of him. Still, the grunts, snorts, and in general piggish noises continue from just below the surface. He wills himself to the edge of the bar, and peers over.

He brings a hand over his mouth and swallows back. “Husk, what the fuck are you doing?”

From his perspective, Husk lays on the ground, slathered in a filth unknown. Orange, off-white, and clear substances smeared all over his body. His generous paunch and pair of tits set off a pang of envy deep in his own lacking chest. A hand idly lifts to his fluffy bust, pressing against it. Besides that, he still can’t tell if he’s jealous of the rest of the cat’s state. A dribble runs from his nose, and a deep, but faded skidmark runs down from wherever all the way down to his crotch.

“Whazzit’ look like I’m doin’? I’m havin’ a late-night fun, heheh,” he stuffs another handful of the snack into his mouth, sucking on his fingers, and afterward guzzling down more of his beer. 

He raises a hand to his mouth, as if to blow a kiss, but instead cups it around. *oooOOOOUUUURRRURP* A belch lasting a couple of seconds unloads into the paw, and he blows it towards Angel. The stench hits him like a ton of bricks. His cock struggles against its soft prison, pulsing. His blushing cheeks bulge out and he swallows back the bitter throw up in his mouth. 

“Hu-Husk! You fuckin’ reek!” He waves a hand across his face while another clandestinely goes to rub his cock, at first disguising the action as a simple fix of his clothes. 

Husk snorts at him and hikes up a leg. “You think that smells? Well, catch a whiff of - urng, this!” A wide grin comes across his face, and he thrusts his dick into his hands. 

*fbfbLARTCh*

The skidmark seems to grow darker. “Ohh, god-DAMN that felt good. You like that, slut? Heheheh, I know I did,” he growls.

The putrid atmosphere of the bar intensifies in a snap, introducing a deep sulfur smell. Husk simply continues to pump into his hands, aiming his cock straight at Angel, giving him the perfect view. He can see the drunkard’s ass flexing, maybe trying to push out another bombshell? He recoils, but his eyes stay fixed on the nasty cannon between his legs, eyes crossing to focus on it. He snorts at the “air” around him, mouth coming open just a tad to taste at the smell. Once again, he swallows. He continues to stroke himself in short, hurried motions, crushing his wobbly legs together.

“I c-. I wa-. Fuck,” the looming figure sneers down at the piggish cat.

“Yeah-huh. Speechless, I get it. Say,” he takes a hand off his dick and grabs the now almost-empty bag next to him, shoving it at Angel, “you want some cheese puffs?”

“Uhhh…” he looks down into the silver lining, seeing the mess of chips, but with what looks like… a sauce? “Husk, what did you put on these things?” The floored cat simply looses an obnoxious *ouRURP* and at the same time, his length burps up another stream of pre. A hand reaches halfway to the bag, but the arachnid snatches it back, apparently coming to his senses. A long red eyebrow cocks at the action.

“What, you really ain’t hungry? You need some meat on those -nguh- bones. More than… that,” he waves a finger at the stick’s barely noticeable stomach, then uses the same hand to scritch at his sweatstained taint. “You SURE you don’t want some?” A couple of chips fall into his mouth as he tips the bag back to himself.

Angel struggles to steady himself with a deep breath, only inhaling more fumes in the process. He reaches another hand down to his crotch, “fixing his shorts” like the other. Really, he’s just stroking his dick through the fabric. The man opens his mouth to speak, but Husk cuts back in. “What, you need some fresh air? Well,” he presses his legs together this time, sitting straight up, “I got some ready for ya’, fuckin’ bitch.” His mouth hangs open after the insult, showing off the chewed-up remains of his snack.

*ffFRAPT*

A sharp, rippling outburst comes from the dank cavern that is Husk’s behind, forcing its way out against the hard concrete. A shameless, breathy moan follows afterward, a tiny bit of the mush in his mouth dropping out onto his ample chest. He breathes in deep through the mouth and swallows down the food and smell. Angel’s thin legs tremble from the stench coming from the barkeep, and the spasms of pleasure coming from himself.

“Hoh, FUCK. That kinda hurt. Felt nice on the boy though,” he teases, slapping his dick around. Angel’s eyes continue to fixate on it, as the pressure in the base of his own builds. A need, not just in his sex, but his head emerges.

“H-Husk,” he yelps between shivers.

His orange teeth pull into a grin. “Whatcha want sweetcheeks?” He wipes up the drop on his chest and sucks it down.

“P-Please, could you… c-could you u-uh…” he stammers.

“Could I what?”

Angel sticks a hand down his pants and directs his throbbing erection straight forward into the fabric. “Burp a-again?” His lowest pair of hands rub the leaky thing for a second while he asks, then they refrain.

“Heh heh heh, I knew you loved this shit. Here’s one, just for you.” Angel stares at his face in anticipation.

Husk finishes his beer, then stuffs a paw into the bag, drawing out a huge mass of stuck-together puffs, tipping it at the spider as a sort of toast. He crams the ball into his maw, crunching down the slimy, moist snack, and he swallows down about half before he beats a fist against his soft chest. The spectator continues to gaze at his messy mouth, and finally, he obliges. His mouth opens wide, showing off the litter of mush and goo coating the insides. Angel presses his thighs together to support himself, and his mouth goes agape, tongue hanging out ever-so-slightly. His hands get back to work, rubbing the bulge furiously.

*hhHHoOOOOUUUUHOURP-uuURRRRUARP*

A roiling, surging belch roars its way out of Husk’s throat, followed by a pig-like snort. The chewed food and saliva/precum/smegma gunk inside his mouth spray all over, coating his body and Angel’s top half in the warm, sticky remains. Angel’s posture stiffens, and he bucks his hips into his soft hands. His tongue rolls around the edges of his mouth, licking up the rancid salve from Husk’s. His eyes once more latch onto the slobby man’s body, traveling from dick to face multiple times, savoring the view. Finally, his climax overwhelms him. His shaft throbs in his pants, and thick ropes of cloudy white eject from the tip, soaking the front of the short-shorts and painting a couple of spots onto the counter in front of him. In the heat of the moment, his cum-covered hands wipe the mess off onto his shorts, smearing the thick slime all over his front. 

“I fuckin’ KNEW you loved my shit, whore. You just fuckin’,” Husk pumps his dick up into his messy hands a few times to show what he means, “didn’t you?”

An inch of sense creeps into Angel, afflicting him with unjustified indignation. “I-I would n-n- I’m leaving! I-” He yells at the man, only cut off by the domineering cat once more.

“Yeah, you WOULD~” he teases, baring a full wicked smile at his “victim”, “now, if yer’ so bent on leavin’, how ‘bout a lil’ somethin’ for the road? Feel free to jizz to it later.” he offers as he multitasks, rubbing his stomach while massaging his pillowy mantits. 

*bbBRUMPT*

A bassy rumble emerges from under him, once again filling the air with a foul fog. The “air” acquires yet more of an artificial cheese smell, but this time like said cheese has somehow expired in his gut. His cock spasms again. “Have fun with that, sugartits.”

Angel’s blush deepens, and he powerwalks off from the counter, eyes wide and dick still half-erect in the front of his shorts. As he goes, he wipes off the remains of his load onto his fluff, not thinking about it. The cat snickers to himself as he gets back to stroking his own. Finally reaching his table, he grabs up the boxes of hot, greasy pizza and stomps past the bar once again, giving Husk a good view of his hindquarters.

“Nice ass, whore! Bet it’d look a lot better with some real MEAT on it!” He yells at the leaving spider, slapping his own thick thigh. The only thing he gets in response is a twitch from the star’s still somewhat hard length. 

And once again, Husk is alone. This time, with a bag filled with a disgusting slop, instead of the respectable chips that once occupied the space. His lust-addled mind jumps to a simple conclusion. What do you do with a fetid, rock-hard cock and something you could wrap around it?

He repeats the mantra, “Idea, bitch.”

He turns the bag upside down and lowers it down onto his rod, engulfing the entire thing. From base to tip, even with some wiggle room at the end. A shiver runs up his spine as he submerges himself in the slimy but stiff bag. He twitches his head to the side as he drags the makeshift fleshlight all the way down, fitting loosely on his length. The simultaneous warm and cold sensation from the paste and the foil lining its walls worm into his base, making his head spin just a bit. From the stimulation, a drip of snot leaks out of his nose, and he palms it away without another thought.

In a simple, but still awkward motion, he wraps the mouth of the bag around his base. A loud crinkling screeches out from this, but the commander simply ignores the jarring noise. He pumps once into the terrible hold on his member, and instantly the insides emit yet another sound, this time a sickening squelch. A few hard throbs follow, along with a pinching sensation within his length.

A gripe comes between sniffles, “Aw, c’mon! Already?”

Within a couple more thrusts, the sensation is pushed over. He spews into the bag, and luckily enough it contains most of the seed, besides a couple dribbles trailing down onto his crotch fur. He grips his slowly softening prick and pulls his cumsleeve up, leaving it with a slight orange tint on its slippery surface. A simple wipe-up with his hands later, and the dull mixture is smeared around his mouth and belly. He rolls his rough tongue along his lips and looks down at the discarded bag once more. Without an extra thought, he rips it open and runs his tongue across the middle. His dim eyes widen as he slurps at the clumps of yellowed cum, and sooner than later the entire bag is in his mouth. After a while of sucking the piece of trash dry, he stops with it in his mouth. With a swallow, the entire thing slides down his throat.

He lies on the spot for a minute, just staring at the shelves built into the counter in front of him. With his head lying on his chest, a clear, glistening double chin shows. Breaths come in through the nose, and out from the mouth, deep sighs of comfort. His eyes cross and lock onto his soiled, softening shaft. 

“I should prolly cover up.”


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even more disgusting smut, brought to ya with love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AGAIN - Shout-out to a certain yeen who motivated me/helped me to come up with and actually write this bitch.

Husk packs his hanging piece back into his briefs. It strains against the loose, worn-out fabric. Pieces of skin show through the holes in the panels, and the outline of his cock shows clearly in the tight-ish undergarment. “And I uh… should prolly get up too.”

With a bit of difficulty, Husk rolls onto his belly, forcing out a small burp. From there, he pushes himself up onto his knees and uses the bar to support himself in stumbling to his feet. Once up, the feline almost trips over himself while trying to get out from behind the bar. After a short walk forward, he comes out in front of the room. For the first time, the barkeep actually inspects the place.

The low, but still warm orange lamps shine down on his oily fur. The sweat coating him becomes apparent with the sudden change in heat, making all of it even more present in his senses. His soft, taupe hair matted down onto his perspiring skin. The abundance of sticky and greasy food products mixed in all over him isn’t helping the fact. And it certainly isn’t helping with the intensified BO wafting up from his folds, specifically his flooded armpits. He points his black nose right at the source, breathing in the caustic stink. With a smile, he raises his arm to let more of it waft through the air. Most likely he would be standing still transfixed on himself if he didn’t remember that he has a job to do.

A hand rubs across his hanging chin, a somewhat worried but still spacey look in his eyes. “Well, shit. S’posed to clean this up. Why the fuck izzis’ my problem?” He complains into the stuffy air, still looking around the room. Almost every table is covered in some capacity. Plates of leftovers, greasy diner food, plus stacks of glasses containing unknown drinks. “There liquor in those?” Husk thinks to himself, subconsciously nodding at the vast sea of junk. He approaches the first table, where the last guests were just sitting.

It’s one of the cleanest surfaces around, that’s for sure. Only a couple things sit on top of it, just the couple’s orders laying on top. Some tall glasses accompany the still-warm food, full of a fizzy clear liquid. Probably soda or its club variant. Other than that, the table doesn’t need much cleaning. Husk pulls both meals to his sides, carefully balancing them against his hips.

“Guess it’s time for me ta’ get this over with.” 

He lumbers towards the trash can in the corner, only to stop once again when he gets there. The thing is full to the brim with garbage. From regular plastic trash to uneaten items, the monster of a bin only has a bit of space left until it’s completely full. He hovers the soon-to-be waste over the bin. But before he can get rid of it, a rumble from his gut interrupts. His wandering gaze swipes to the plates. A simple bowl of chili, and a meatball sub. Half-empty and half-eaten respectively, but hey, when has a couple bites hurt anybody? Never, that’s when.

He balances the plates once again, this time on top of the pile of garbage. They totter dangerously on the uneven stack, but it’s good enough for them to stay upright. Husk looks down at the items and the prey is chosen quickly. The bowl of chili is first up. He raises it up from its throne of discarded food and inspects it with a hungry pair of eyes. The sides of its container are stained with a grimy red, from when it was fresh and full. When swished around, it doesn’t move all too much, it was probably much less solid when it was hot. Not that the man who’s about to down the stuff cares too much about its consistency.

And down it, the man does. In a surprisingly swift motion, he brings the edge of the bowl to his mouth, opened wide. The contents of the bowl empty into his mouth in a flash, some of it spreading around his mouth and cheeks. With a few large, loud gulps, he finishes off the rest of what was left of the spicy paste. It sets his mouth sizzling with a pleasant heat as he goes. Finally, the last few drops of it fall into his mouth, and he without thinking he belches into the bowl. Immediately, the vapor bounces back into his face. The now-acrid fire stings his eyes and assaults his nose, the “fresh” gas forcing its way back onto him. He drops the bowl onto the ground, luckily it just rolls off to the side. 

As he breathes in the harsh expulsion, a coughing fit overwhelms him. For a minute, he hacks into his mouth between efforts to stifle the cough, each time failing to contain them. The new stench tickles his nostrils like nothing else, and before he knows it, a new urge overwhelms his senses. The coughing fit pauses. He leans back, taking a pulling in a full breath of air, then bucks forward. An explosive sneeze shoots from his nose, coating his palm in a translucent, slightly green mucus. Hanging strands of the snot run from his nose, over his lips, to the hand. 

The cat recoils from the mess, and on instinct, smears the substance against his thigh. Some of the lukewarm slime gets on the fur, but most spreads on the strained fabric. The cat side kicks in, and his tongue emerges from his mouth to “clean” up the aftermath. It circles his lips, pulling the salty spread into his trap. 

He opens his mouth to speak, rivulets running between teeth and lips, “I’ve had worse,” punctuating his statement with a tiny burp, the contents of his mouth spraying out and landing on his stomach.

He wipes the rest of it off with his forearm, simply rubbing it off onto his underwear again. The slime is starting to build upon the side, visibly dampening the material. Husk obviously doesn’t care, more paying attention to the needs of his grumbling midsection. Without hesitation, he goes back to the trash. In a flash, the sub disappears down his “starving” maw. Pieces of the sandwich fall down onto his tits, the crumbs go ignored. Once Husk finishes horking down the thick sandwich, he glares at the full trash can, glancing between the pile and the other piles stacked on the tables all around.

“God, do I really gotta take this shit out?” the feline asks himself with a scowl. Another shaking rumble escapes him. He massages his belly and as he stares out, a dim lightbulb flashes into his mind. “Well, when you put it that way…” he concedes to the flab.

Leaving the plate on top of the pile, the gassy resident wobbles back to the table. With a near-violent motion, he snatches up the leftover drinks and pours them both back into his throat. The loud swallows go on for a couple seconds as he finishes the barely touched sodas. Fizzling lemon-lime flavor burns his throat on the way down, a welcome change from the skunky beer he had been downing earlier, and a good relief from the slightly spicy taste still lingering on his tongue. Once finished, he stacks the cups on top of each other and places them off to the side for easy retrieval later. He isn’t trying to make his job any harder here.

He leans over on the table in front of him, feeling the fresh fullness permeating his gut. A couple deep breaths to steady himself come in and out through his mouth. “God, my breath stinks.”

As he bears down onto its surface, his dick gets squished underneath his belly. At the most opportune time, his belly launches another gurgle, this one monstrous in size and length. The growl shakes the short table, and even more, the length pinned underneath the soft fat. His mast grows quickly, slithering its way out from underneath his belly. Just the covered head sticks out from underneath his mass, throbbing against its prison and full once again. It’s like it’s been through nothing at all, put aside the obvious difference in the musk permeating around it. He humps up against the table for a second but stops just as quick as he started. Tables need to be cleaned, glasses emptied, stomach stuffed.

He dismounts from the table and starts on his “cleaning” trip around the room. The next table he goes to is much more extensive in its selection of shitty, stale food. A bit more than half a cold burger, and a couple barbecue-slathered ribs. A stack of pancakes leftover with only a few bites taken out of the sides occupy the middle. Husk grabs the flapjacks with his hands, squishing the syrupy cakes into his jaw. The table rocks with each butt from his bulge, grinding along its underside. He strips the ribs of their meat, sticking whole pieces into his mouth and pulling out cleaned bones. The syrup covering his fingers swirls with the brown sauce, mixing the two different sweets on his sloppy paws. Like the ribs, the go into his mouth and come back out just slightly cleaner, only for the sauces to be wiped off on his slowly filling gut. The burger is the simplest to down, going down the hatch in only a couple bites. He chugs the drinks leftover, a purple soda and a vodka tonic mixed into his sloshing stomach, contributing to his already sloshed head.

The next dishes on the surface closest are a bit less in quantity, and just as bad in quality. A large bowl of hashbrowns, covered in cheese, and a greasy steak addled with fat. His sharp teeth rip into the chewy steak, tearing off chunks like a beast. Within a minute the whole thing is chewed and swallowed, and the bowl of hashbrowns slides down his throat about as easy as the chili. He rams his nasty bulge into a ring made by his hands, smearing grease over the fabric protecting the skin, which by this point, doesn’t need protection of any kind. The tip wets with pre, and his rear end lets out another explosion of a fart. A moan forces its way out but turns into a roaring belch halfway though.

Stacked plates are unstacked, and the stale food coating each table is shoveled into his roiling stomach. Glasses of sparkling substances, alcoholic and not, are emptied into and onto him. His fur grows sloppier, his hands even more so. Same with the poor underwear stretched around his thighs. After a bit more gorging, he snaps to peer around the room once more. He’s only gone through what looks like a small portion of the room’s food.

“God, I could fuckin’ swim in this shit… I swear…” he trails off. “I’m just fu-uuUARP-, full of ideas tonight, ain’t I?”

Husk stumbles to one of the pool tables in the room, billiard balls coating its surface after an unfinished game. Just like a cat would, he swipes the balls into the pockets. With some difficulty, he climbs onto the soft, green surface, and surveys the room. 

“Oh, uh, wow. Yeah, that’s somethin’ else to think about, huh?” His eyes come to the open doorway at the opposite side of the room, leading out to the central hallway. “Well, if somebody just HAPPENS to walk in, that just sucks fer’ me.”

He props a cue stick in the corner pocket closest to the entrance and pauses. “This’s how that whore duzzit’, ain’t it?” The nearly-nude fellow mumbles to himself.

A fatty leg hooks around the thin wood, and he does an experimental spin around it. The makeshift stripper pole bends but holds. He adjusts his bowtie and gets back to spinning. Half a minute of whirling around it, to be exact. Unsurprisingly, this sets him off balance. With a few off-kilter steps, he lays down in the center of the table, resting on top of his gurgling paunch. 

*bbBBLOoRT*

“A-huh-huh-huh,” he chuckles, snorting up the rank odor while gyrating his hips. After a minute more of shoving his cock between his midsection and the felt, coating the fur and surface with different sticky substances, sauces, and precum. Beastial huffs and snorts sputter out of his mouth as other types of bestial expulsions thunder out of his front and back, painting his already skidmarked underwear and the air around him a darker brown. The rank smell of his armpits wafts to his nose as he goes at it.

He shoves himself back onto his knees and carefully raises back to his feet after a little while. Immediately, the slob of a demon gravitates back to the pole once more. He slaps his waving bulge against it, rubbing the length against the tiny surface area. This time, he bears down hard on the solid maple cue, grinding his plenty plump ass up and down the line. The motions aren’t even trying to replicate his imaginings of Angel, they’re simply pleasuring him. Perhaps scratching an itch, literal or metaphorical. His fun is put to a stop after a particularly hard press, as he rips another harsh gust of wind onto it. That’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

The post snaps at the base with a harsh crack, and Husk goes careening backward. His degraded but still catlike reflexes kick in as he tries to spin towards the ground. But before he can even try to put his hands out to take the fall, his stomach takes the brunt for him. The gas welling within is pushed out both ends simultaneously, tearing open his floodgates. 

*fllllLLLLGRAAAaaArAART* - *hhHhOUr-OUUUUUUUORrpP*

A painful gale wind rips its way out of his sphincter, and a foul gust heaves out of his open maw. His eyes roll back into their sockets. His mast spasms underneath him, coughing up a jet of clear goo which puddles against his navel. He lies on the filthy floor for a moment, long tongue lolled out, trailing down the side of his face and resting on the ground. It laps at the crumbs and filth covering the concrete surface unconsciously, any flavor automatically taking first priority in his mind. “It’s better than nothing,” his senses assume in his stupor. As he snuffles at the humid, horrendous atmosphere, he massages the sides of his damp stomach. 

After this second spell of rest, he struggles back onto his feet, using the side of the pool table to brace against. He wanders to the nearest table housing a mug of ale and grabs it with a shaky hand. A couple sips of the amber brew go down the hatch which seems to help the feline steady himself. His similarly colored eyes float to the entrance once more. The basic clock above it reads 12:30 AM.

“Yeah, ‘z ‘bout time I shut this shit up.”

He lurches to the wide doorway, drink still in hand, and peers out. The hall is dim, with only the soft orange light from the diner and wall lamps shining through. Though it’s darker than it should be, being blocked by the dark fog flooding out of the top. His stomach stirs as he takes a couple more steps out into the darkness. Idly, he fingers his deep belly button, pulling out nothing but a bit of something black. He pops it into his mouth, of course. The glutton simply shrugs at the taste or lack of such. He snaps back onto task once he’s fully out in the low light of the hall.

“Closin’ up!” 

He raises his mug to his mouth when another gurgle shakes his stomach. Turning his ass out to the hall, he hikes a leg. The pocket of gas works its way down through his intestines, and just as it surfaces against his pucker, he does one more thing. The rim of the mug presses against his cheeks, centering it right over the blast zone.

*fffllllLLLGRRRRrrAAAARRrP*

The fart echoes against the glass. Waves of the drink splash against his crack, painting his skidmark with fresh wetness. After a couple seconds of the expulsion sending beer lapping at his ass, it settles down into a quiet sputter. A quick sigh and Husk has the foggy mug to his lips. He skulls the stink-infused brew without a second thought, using his free hand to massage the wet spot farther across his rear end.

*hhhHHHWOURP-OooOOURP*

The gross creature finishes with an undulating burp that echoes throughout the polluted hall. 

“God, that always feels so fuckin’... mmf,” he moans to himself as his wings whip more of the greasy gas into the area.

He drops the mug onto the rug, as he wanders over to one of the hallway’s empty walls. His length presses up against the fancy crimson wallpaper. The bead of pre emerging from the tip slathers onto the red, leaving a mark on the spot. He pushes the sheathed piece up between his warm belly and the wall, effectively vicing between the surfaces. Both his hands go to his rear, dipping under the waistband of his soiled underwear to spread his thick cheeks. His fingers grip the very edges of the mounds, just off of his thick donut. He bucks his hips into the sweaty folds, ramming his dick between the wall and stomach, which rumbles once again only pushing him closer to the edge of orgasm. 

*fffffFFFFLLLLLGGgggGGGRrRRAPT*

“OUH. Fuckin’, EXCUSE ME,” he yells out into the “smoky” hallway. The fresh meat odor intensifies, and with each inhale Husk bangs his rod harder against his belly fat. The small tables around him shake with each thrust.  
Once again, his eyes lead him to another idea, this time more… pointed. He smiles at the elevator at the end of the hall, unsticking himself from his wall. A line of precum and grease remains on the surface, he’s left his mark. Now it’s time to leave a certain somebody a present.

Husk waltzes up to the elevator with a confident, if hazy smile. He calls it down, and within a second it’s doors are open to his behind.

*bbbBBBLLLLllLRRrRUUUuMPT*

The small room that once clean is now been soaked with the cat’s foul wind. He reaches into the front of his underwear as he steps into the lift, mouth open and nose struggling to take in as much of his smell as possible between piggish grunts. After a bit of rummaging around with his prick under his underwear, he draws his hands back up to his sides. A smear of yellowed smegma coats both of them. With a jolly, near delirious grin, he smears the shape of a heart onto the wall opposite to the door. He spreads some of the creamy substance onto his lips and presses them into the rancid heart’s empty space, leaving a fat, off-white kiss mark on the pristine black walls. He laps at his lips with his rough tongue, swallowing down the tangy, heady substance, and he strokes the rest of the cheese off on his bulge.

He lifts his leg, plants his foot on the railing, and fills the elevator with yet more dark gas. A couple breathy chuckles leave his sopping chest as the tip of his dick presses into of the eighth floor’s button, leaving a dollop of clear slime on it. He ducks out of the nasty elevator before the shutters shut and before he can burp into the thing as a blessing, it takes off. The perfectly serviceable, but wasted *hhOoOURP* leaves thick spittle on the door.

The command comes out as a slurred mumble underneath his horrid breath. “Better fuckin’ enjoy that shit, slut.”

He struts back to his domain, the bar. With each lumbering step, his mast swings back and forth like a pendulum. A loud *smack* reverberates through the hall. The slob takes his moist hand off his behind as he steps through the threshold, shutting the twin doors behind him, shutting the reek that was flowing into the rest of the hotel in. The hot lights shine back down on his dripping, flabby back as he takes in the surroundings once more.

He snatches up a couple plates on his way back to the pool table. “Aight, aight. Now… it’s time to get this boat afloat.”

The spaghetti and wings fall and splatter against the fabric covering the play area. Splatters of red and burgundy stain the neon green in a gruesome, mouth-watering scene. Husk shudders with anticipation, and his cock bobs along in agreement. He returns to another table and grabs yet another few plates, emptying the same onto the center of the stained surface. More sauce slops onto the pile as it stacks just a bit higher.

Husk realizes something. This is going to take too long if he’s just carrying a few plates with each trip. Whether this comes to him out of pure laziness or actual wit is up in the thick air, but a solution comes to mind. He ducks behind the bar, rummaging around in the shelves underneath. After a minute of scrambling for something or other, he emerges back from under its surface.

“Shit. This’s takin’ too damn long. ‘Zere anythin’ around here…” he asks himself, scanning the room. The trash stands out to him for whatever reason. “Oh.”

He meanders over to the large bin, gazing down into the mountain of food waste. The black bag stands out at the sides, ready to be pulled and dumped out. The yanks on the thick bag, but it doesn’t budge. As he barkeep lifts the stuffed bin to his stomach, the smell of its contents float up to his nose. It slams to the ground halfway to the trash chute. Husk’s head gravitates over the mound of food, nose and mouth inhaling as much of it as possible. His eyes widen as he hurls his face into the pile.

His teeth gnash indiscriminately through the top of the garbage, swallowing down a wide variety of stale and slimy mess within seconds. He barely savors the taste, simply tearing through the stuff to feel the sensation in his mouth and stomach. Though the flashes of taste he feels only spur him further. Dull and inoffensive slop, with tints of salty and spicy taste thrown in with every other bite. He crams more and more of the shitty trash into his mouth, looking up in front of him with empty eyes. His cock throbs with each swallow. 

With every deep snort he takes, he bashes his thick tent into his hands, manhandling himself with sticky hands. The bin rocks with each pump of his hips and a clap sounds out from his backside with each hard thrust. A meaty *bbBBBFLART* “interrupts” the action, but he seems to jack harder while it thunders out of him. He smears the thick precum trailing off the tip with over the piece of clothing, and over his mantits, nipples erect. Besides this, his hands remain groping his stomach as he belches into the pile every few seconds.

After a minute of this stuffing, he yanks his chubby cheeks from the pile, sights set on the indention his face made with a surprised look. He wipes his wide tongue along his lips and chin, “cleaning” the smeared crumbs and pieces of food from the area. The rest gets wiped off onto his forearm. His recovery is fairly quick. Looking around with the expression of a kid breaking his parents’ rules, he hauls the bin the away from the chute and instead to the pool table.

With a heave, he throws the bin onto the edge of the table. It wobbles precariously on the raised portion but stays upright. The cat braces a messy forearm against it and tips it in front of the small mound already there. It comes down with a slam, a flood of old food covering the green from its opening to the side, swamping the now pitiful few “fresh” items. He clambers his way up the side and raises the can up the rest of the way, effectively filling much of the felt with its contents. He wobbles on the edge but steadies himself on the can. 

Husk drops down onto his unsteady feet, bringing the now-empty bin with him. He pulls out the black bag and shakes the stray toppings and pieces out from it. They fall back into the empty trash can. The bag billows out with a couple jerks downward. After a bit of low-level mental planning, Husk gets to work.

\--------------------------------

After a good bit of pushing leftovers into his bag and drooling maw, of course, errantly humping against whatever just happened to be around, he fills the bag to the brim. The floor is dotted with small pools of sweat and pieces of food dropped from his mouth. Emptied cups and glasses coat each table, mere drops of drink leftover. A slight fog obscures the room, fogging said glasses and making the air stuffy. Not to mention the stench. An ungodly, heavy smell of greasy meat and cheese fills every nook and cranny.

The source of the fumes drags his bag along the dirty floor. With every strong pull, a small burp pushes its way out of his mouth, spreading his breath into the atmosphere. Eventually, after many sharp *hooOURP*’s, he reaches the destination. With surprising strength, he hurls the stuffed sack onto it. Before he climbs up, he shimmies up to the sharp corner of the table. He shoves his crack against the angle, hooking the angle into his donut. Through his barely-holding-on underwear, he grinds against the edge, scratching an apparently deep itch. As he rubs his thick ring with the side, a wet ripper splutters out of it.

After a second more of grinding, Husk separates himself from the post. And as quick as a drunk cat can, he scrambles on top of it. Immediately, he pours the rest of the bag onto the already decently sized hill of junk. A few seconds of nonstop pouring later, and the entire midsection of the table is swamped. A full mountain of food, none of it anywhere above decent quality, towering about 5 feet high. Anything solid has a bite mark at least. He sniffles as he stares down at the sea of diner food. His tent stands straight out, the tip soaked and see-through with precum. The rest of the length, stained with cheesy oranges, grease spots, and other “savory” flavors.

He pushes himself forward mentally, drooling at the disgusting array of food before him. The clear spit basically flows out of his open mouth, dribbling over his chin and bowtie. He leans forward, mouth wide open, and falls into the heap. With a slam, the entire front side of his body is submerged in the lake. As he hugs his surroundings, his sweaty fur gets smothered with sauces and crumbs, juices from meat slathering his flabby thighs and torso. The underwear is soaked and stained even more, from taint to tip. It presses up against the soft pile, smushed between it and his grumbling stomach. The lukewarm temp, along with the hot lights above intensifies the mishmash of “good” and bad smells swirling about the pile. And the warm, slick surface against his bulge feels like grotesque heaven.

Immediately, he smashes his face into the top of his monument, burying his head among the edible rubble. He gluts on the head of the fatty mountain, barely making a dent even with his wild chomping. His hands, after shoving food into his mouth, clap back onto his backside. One palm squishes a cheek around, teasing himself. The other takes a more proactive position, settling over the bulge of Husk’s asshole. His middle and ring finger delve into the sloppy hole without resistance, stretching its loose fabric covering into it. The rough fabric rubs his inner walls. His pointer and pinky splay out across the crack, pressing down into both sides. With each bite and delve into his own cavern, he thrusts his cock up into the rubbage. Suffice to say, the pair of underwear isn’t ever recovering.

*FFLBBblLaaARcH*

Hiccups and thick belches purge themselves from his throat after groups of gulps. Brassy farts blare out of his rear more and more frequently, and his wings whip the miasma around him like a whirlwind. Like a well-timed hiccup-and-swallow, the rhythms of his fingering and smelly outbursts line up, most likely intentionally. Every time another blast pushes its way out, he forces his fingers back in against the wind, soaking them in his stench. A grotesque squelch oozes out with every dive. More and more of the filler stuffs down his gullet as he thrusts into the pile. The motion of all of it jostles his stomach, somewhat helping to push the gas out of both ends. And the jostling and vibrating only stimulate him further.

*HoooOOURP! bbbbBRUUUOP!*

As he bucks and chews into the pile, his nose sniffles something distinctively peppery. For once, between chews and burps, he draws his head back. His dripping mouth hangs open for a second, as he looks to a light above him. The tingling in his sinuses sparking with the light. As his sneeze rushes out of his nostrils, he ducks his head down with the force. The slime explodes out of his nose with a yelp and coats the head-shaped divot in mucus. He stares down at the clear coat smattered onto his “meal” and licks his lips clean of the salty substance. For a moment, it seems as if his senses ricochet back to him after a long night gone. But instead, he grips his length and leans back into the stack. The rod plows through it, creating a sort of grip.

*fbbBRBRRAaARPt*

With his dick fully submerged in the warm belly of the hill, he slams his head back down into its previous spot, stuffing his face once more. A clump of fries stuck together by the snot fill it first, but the strange texture does nothing to stop him. He swallows it down, and moves on not down, but out. He chomps through a few pieces of bacon and pieces of a hamburger patty, all covered in mucus. As he fucks the mountain of trash, he continues to eat all around him, eventually scarfing down whatever his sneeze affected. The tightness in his rod intensifies after a particularly intense round of blasts, and he lays into the junk harder. His hands come together behind him, forming a point with both of them. With each deep plunge into his backside, a gale wind of stink roars out. He speedeats through the food surrounding him, his belly slowly swelling. Yet more violent burps surge through his mouth, sending spittle and chewed food spraying.

*uuuuUORP! HHHHHOOoooOUUuRP!*

The tightness within his piece seizes up after a minute more of the cycle, and his hip thrusting speeds up with his eating. He snarls as he inhales the garbage. Both hands shimmy under the underwear, shoving themselves into the hot opening. They both slip into the slimy, messy hole with ease. His fingering becomes more manic, both hands scrambling their fingers in and out of the donut without rhyme or reason. Gas continues to pour from both sides. His humping pushes through the tight, greased tunnel once, twice more. And then he pauses, shuddering. His hands lodge themselves up to the knuckles in himself. The tip of his cannon explodes into the cave, soaking the “walls” and the cracks between the items making those walls. The flood doubles back on his length, leaking out to his base. He stops eating, simply laying his head sideways in the pile’s dip. The mussed cat stays in his relaxed position for a while, simply panting and going through stray bouts of gassiness.

The skidmark on the back of his underwear runs almost solid brown. His hands dislodge themselves from his cavern. A dark, thin slime coats his already messy fingers, smelling just about like a concentrated version of his flatus. He stuffs one into his mouth, and the other goes to massage one of his soft mantits. It tastes bitter, but also just slightly savory. A dry heave tries to come up from him, but it only results in a lackluster burp. He suckles on the three fingers shoved into his mouth harder. His entire chest is soon coated in the horrific ass slime, like a hellish chest rub, the miasma floating up to his nostrils.

Husk pulls out of the mountain, unplugging from the soaked channel. Unsurprisingly enough, his softening cock is soaked through. The thin underwear covering it see-through, though this isn’t the most obvious at first sight. It’s coated in cum, sauce, and crumbs. Quite the savory combination. At least, the cat must think this, as he spreads it over the front side of the pile, not hesitating to use his own spunk as yet another seasoning. He slurps up anything that covered with it, quickly cleaning the off-white off the pile. With a few cummy *hhHHHOUuUURP*’s, he falls back into the pile, arms and wings splayed out once more.

\--------------------------------

He scoots off the table, slipping onto his paws once more. The weight from his distended gut sends him skittering forward, but he pulls back quickly enough to not fall flat once again. His sleepy eyes glance at the divot made in the heap spread all over the pool table, no doubt that felt’s ruined. The imprint left by his body is deep in the food, with a huge crater where his stomach would be. Speaking of food, he’s absolutely covered in it. Sauce and other juices drip off his entire body, flushed out by his sweat. His bowtie is splattered brown with barbecue sauce, and his underwear is everything but white.

He makes a quick trip to the taps, filling a new mug to the brim with cold drink, the chilly surface a welcome change. Globs of substances smear the clear glass as it rubs against his heated skin. Once again, he lowers the cup to his crack. A fierce, burning *fffFRRaaAPT* sends ripples through the golden liquid. He chugs the pungent drink just as before, but savors it, swishing it around his mouth before swallowing it down. He shakes his head at the slightly sweet but bitter flavor.

Husk wanders over to a coach, falling back onto it with a slam. The wood creaks under his heft. He splays out on it, giving himself a rest. Anybody’d be tired after such an afternoon of binging and humping, and this man isn’t in the best shape. His eyes close as he lays back, the soft polyester dampening around his huffing mass. A hand gropes out to the side, eventually coming across a thick remote wedged between the far arm and cushion. He yanks it out of its trap and scans it with unfocused eyes.

“Oh… thought I lost this thing,” the drunk mumbles at himself as he fumbles with the controls.

The many TVs scattered about the room’s walls flip on, synced to some news show. A tall woman with paper-white skin and a man with a gas mask ramble on about a chaotic scene unrolling in the background. Just as fast as it appears, it flicks to the football channel. American football. It isn’t that it really matters what kind of football to the dazed feline, he just needs something fun to stare at for a while while he rests. He flicks a switch on the long controller and the dim lights in the room cut out, leaving only the many screens’ bright colors to illuminate the dark and cut through the dirty fog.

For a while, he lounges on the sofa, making trips to the tap here and there for a refill. The commentators’ jeers echo through the dark room. The husky voices spew jokes that’d usually be considered unfunny, maybe even distasteful, but Husk laughs between gulps all the same. He downs his mug once again and sets it on the floor in front of him, thirst mostly quenched. With this the flabby bartender fully lays down, resting his head on the arm. The ring of TVs lining the walls are so bright and vivid, each color in the broadcast popping out. The batteries in the blocky remote pop out, and he lifts his hips up off the cozy couch. It slips into his hole with a wet squish. Each hard button and ribbed switch scratch the soft insides as he leisurely pushes down onto it.

A pressure becomes apparent in his still semi-erect member, right at the head. “Well shit… gotta use the fuckin’ john,” he slurs into the heady fog.

He slowly raises off the couch, back onto his feet. The remote slips halfway out of his ring, but still stays held in by his underwear. He barely takes a couple steps before his focus fixates back onto the ring of TVs. Some commercial about fast food plays. A flash of bright white, followed by tantalizing images of actual “fresh” food and drink, all laid out with a hypnotic male voice. 

“Oooh. That looks good right ‘bout now.”

He rubs his stuffed stomach as he slams back down into the seat, the piece of plastic shoving back into him. A forceful moan slips out of his throat as the bumps and dips slide through his rim. He stares at the commercial as it runs, licking his lips as the savory imagery. His hands trail up and down his somewhat-flaccid length, less jerking it off and more giving it a slow massage. The pressure grows within the bridge. The TVs flick to yet another commercial, this one about some kind of beer. “Let loose with friends!” it repeats, showing a mug full of deep yellow brew.

“Yeah, let loose…” he agrees with the advertisement, nodding. “God, I need ta’ go.” He starts to stand, but the commercial yanks at his attention again.

The ad pushes, “Just let go!”

And let go he does. A geyser of piss erupts out of the tip of his piece, shooting down into the floor in front of him. The dark liquid spreads on the dirty concrete, quickly journeying out and pooling against table and chair legs. Husk leans forward, gripping his cock. The stream hits the stone with a loudly spraying all over. The smell hits him and makes him go lightheaded, the overwhelming odor rushing through his sinuses. He hits the couch behind him, his rod nodding up and dousing a couple other tables. The remote slams deep into his rear.

“Hoooooh, fuck.”

He relaxes back into the soft couch, toying with his cannon. Gently pushing it side to side, the pungent fluid coats more and more of the floor and tables. The pumping just doesn’t seem to let up, even after a good few seconds of pure draining. Most of the section is painted with a near-orange tint by now, but still, the waterfall forces through his head. His attention flicks back to the screens. The same commercial is *still* playing.

“Aren’t you thirsty?” A hand offers a mug to the camera. Husk smacks his lips, suddenly feeling his throat.

“Uh, yeah. Kinda.”

“Just grab a mug!” The speakers suggest, or more command.

The demon leans forward and grabs his empty mug, draining the few drops still left in it into his mouth. He stares down at the fountain of “drink” coming from his soaked tip and positions the glass in front of it. He pulls it back quickly before it can overflow and splash back onto him. The rim meets his lips, and it tips back quick. It’s contents flow down his throat, he has to fight back a splutter while swallowing, the beverage’s taste just as overwhelming as its smell. Incredibly strong, borderlining on caustic, but with a sweet undertone?

“Wonder if this shit’s *hoOURP* alcoholic.” The taste comes back up fresh with the piss burp, and he smacks his lips trying to tell. He just shrugs. “Better be.”

After draining his fill back into himself, he goes for another half-glass. He skulls it quicker than the last and doesn’t have to force it down as much. As he gulps down yet another cup, a feeling yanks at the back of his head. His cat-like instincts, once again. He sets down the mug and grips his spewing dick with both his hands. He waves it about the room, drenching anything in range with his scent. The whole section of tables and booths, even portions of the walls. The TV screens are washed with dirty yellow but continue to play commercials. The whole bar has been marked.

He chuckles as he lets go of the hose, “Heheheheh, god-DAMN this feels good.”

He goes to refill his mug once again, putting it back under the rushing drink. He doesn’t pull it back quick enough this time though. The suffocatingly strong urine splashes back up onto his belly, soaking his bulge through. It pools in his deep belly button and the drops absorb into his fur.

“Had ta’ take a shower sometime, HEH. Might ‘s well be golden.” He chugs down the full glass, finishing it off with a loud, stinky *bbBBROURP* reeking of his own piss. 

He grips the shaft once more and aims it straight up. The stream bends and falls back on top of the cat. Instantly, he’s swamped. He tilts it, soaking his entire body neck to thighs. The warm, sticky feeling makes his dick shoot straight up, but still, the stream persists. It wiggles around soaking the couch he sits on too, making a deep lake of piss around him. He lets out a breathy moan, opening his mouth wide. The waterfall falls into his mouth, and he gulps it down. His entire head is quickly steeped with his own secretion, due to both his drunk aim and the amount that flows out of his full maw. He breathes through his nose, belching up into the pool of urine in bursts before letting the torrent fall to the side. Finally, he swallows the remains in his mouth.

*hooURP* *bboHURP* *ffLLFGRUPT* “Hoo, shi-*HOURP!*”

After his fit of burps, he sighs contentedly, letting the swinging stream coat his crotch. A rumbling *ffFLllGLARpT* makes the sea of urine bubble beneath him. His tongue runs over his lips and cheeks, lapping at the wet fur. But once again, he feels the dryness in his throat. He rolls his eyes and leans forward, close to the see-through tent. 

“Well, this should be easy enough.”

With his feline flexibility, he arches his back and clamps his lips over the prick. The hot stream hits the roof of his mouth and flows down his throat. He presses his head down as far as it’ll go, which is about halfway down. The rough fabric of his underwear is saturated with the liquid, and the geyser sprays right down his throat every time he goes down on it. With every breathe in, a river of it runs down his chin, streaming back onto the mast. He sucks hard on the tent, drawing the moisture out of it while still swallowing down the fresh stuff. For a second, he opens his mouth a little bit more, letting the stream run out of it. 

*hhhOURp*

He belches on the quivering length, sending a shiver up his spine. “Ogh, thas’ good,” he slobbers, stiff dick still in his mouth.

He takes the rod halfway, swallowing down the piss in comically large gulps between breaths. 

*aAOURRrP*

His burp rumbles the hose of a cock, a different kind of tension building in it.

*hhhHHHORP*

Yet another rushes out of his mouth, gurgling the liquid already in his mouth.

*hHyYURP*

He purposely exaggerates this one, moving his lips up the shaft as he goes.

After a minute more of this impromptu blowjob, the piss stops flowing into his bloated gut. The somehow still thirsty man whines, sucking harder on the soaked fabric, going at it from the side and front. But the member still throbs, wanting more attention. He lies back once more, uncurling his back. His engorged belly takes up a bit of his view, basically demanding attention. With a couple rubs, another monstrous burp shoots out of his throat, smelling deeply of his own urine. 

He curls back down over his length, moving the flaps covering his piece with his mouth. His bare cock touches the warm air, quivering in the smelly atmosphere. It’s actually relatively clean, compared to the rest of him. While orange imprints still stain some of the skin, and smegma is still gathered around the head, it isn’t *terrible*. The golden shower really did help to rinse off. He pulls the flaps all the way down and positions both hands on his stuffed stomach.

His head plunges back down onto the pulsating length, this time taking it down to the hilt. He starts to rise and fall, and with the up and down, his hands start to massage and knead his doughy stomach. A couple more grumbling belches emerge and shake him, stimulating his dick. The smell of stale piss and grime wafts back up into his nostrils, he only goes down harder. A mixture of gross *shlurp*'s and *hHOuRP*'s rush out of his maw, polluting the air with grotesque smells and noise. His eyes roll back with each belch, the pressure aimed onto his mast. The relief of each release itself is orgasmic, not to mention the actual stimulation. Soon, the pressure building comes to a head.

*bbROURP*

*hhHRUPT*

Only a minute or two into the burpjob, his cock spasms once more. He spears his head on the messy length and bares down onto his bloated paunch, pushing out a particularly large bubble of gas. This pushes him over the edge. 

*hhHHHHOooOUrRP-GgGUuRP*

*ffFFfLGgrARpT*

The pool beneath him warms and bubbles, and his legs shoot out. He climaxes deep into his own throat, the yellowed cum plastering the back and top of his throat. The nearly sour but savory taste immediately overwhelms the taste of piss. He swallows it all down, still holding himself in his tightly closed lips. After a little bit of just breathing and gentle suckling, he pops it out of his mouth and lays back.

In the afterglow of the moment, he surveys the surroundings one last time. The air smells like a dump, but it’s his dump. Much of the floor is marked with his urine, and the screens surrounding him are all dripping with it too. His body is surprisingly clear due to his “shower”, but stickier than ever due to the dried stuff in it. The couch he sits on is absolutely ruined, swamped with his piss and stained with food from his form.

He lets out one last contented sigh, which turns into a harsh belch, and turns over. The heaving, hazy drunkard falls forward, splashing in his pool of piss. His tongue flops out of his mouth, and into the sea, lapping it up with quick motions. His beautiful eyes flutter closed. A hand reaches back to his rear and settles on the shape of the remote, just slightly poking up out of his pucker. A couple of pathetic humps into the drowned fabric of the sofa later, and he’s out like a light. It’s going to be quite the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would call that my magnum opiss HEHEHEH


End file.
